


Kleptomania and Misdirection

by loved_ice



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: BAMF Eggsy, Canon-Typical Violence, Eggsy & Roxy Bromance, Eggsy is the group mom, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Harry Hart Lives, Harry doesn't know what he wants from Eggsy, M/M, Pining Harry, Post-Canon, Protective Harry, Subtly Protective Eggsy, Weird blurry lines between a mentor relationship and a boyfriend relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-28 20:52:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3869404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loved_ice/pseuds/loved_ice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry becomes the new Arthur without a fuss, which is as easy as it gets. </p>
<p>With a leak in their systems and few allies, Harry and Merlin scramble to find a solution to the wrong problem. Overworked and exhausted, they miss one too many details that could cause the ruin of their youngest agents. </p>
<p>Meanwhile, Roxy falls back on old habits after disastrously hooking up with a target. This inadvertently sparks tension between the "old-school" agents and the "rookies", causing her to question the importance of tradition. </p>
<p>Eggsy, still tender from Harry's near-death and struggling to identify with being the new Galahad, wants to fix the chaos Chester left behind. His loyalty to Harry is tested when he discovers who Kingsman's best ghost operative is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing something that isn't a one-shot or quick bit of writing. I'm excited for it! I have a lot of plot stuff planned out and I'm looking forward to whipping this into shape. 
> 
> For the most part, I'm a little vague on the more detailed "spy-parts" of the plot right now. I'm hoping if I marathon some James Bond after finals I'll be able to fix that up in upcoming chapters, but I make no promises. If anyone has any nice "How to write a spy novel" guides, feel free to pass that on to me because I'm sure that'd have everyone enjoying this more. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for stopping by and I hope you enjoy~ This is the only chapter with a lot of Eggsy!POV so enjoy it while you can. The upcoming ones will feature him heavily, but we won't see a lot of his thought-processes.

At the end of the third day, after a brief trip home to shower and eat, Eggsy asks, “Why haven’t you kicked me out?” 

Merlin’s lips quirk, his fingertips scrolling through his tablet even as he glances up at the newest Kingsman. “I just did. Or are you so sleep-deprived you don’t remember leaving?” 

“Not for little trips like that. I mean, why’re you lettin’ me sit here for so long? Even I know it’s pointless, but you ain’t bitched at me once.” Eggsy’s feet twitch, and the urge to scuff them against the floor is stifled as soon as it arrives. 

“Here’s a thought: You’re acknowledging that sitting here like a weepy movie heroine is pointless, yet you’re still here. Why’s that?” Eggsy’s mouth opens, and Merlin plows on: “No, don’t give me ‘I don’t want him to wake up alone’, that’s not it. Why are you here?” 

He’d bite his lips, but he can almost hear Harry’s voice admonishing him. 

“I dunno.” 

“That’s shit too, and you know it.” Merlin tucks his iPad under his arm and leans against the wall next to Eggsy’s seat. “C’mon. Why are you here, Eggsy?” 

His jaw clenches at Merlin’s cool, objective aura. 

“Want me to start you off?” He grins, with a sharp edge. “He called me on the way to Kentucky, absolutely furious. Whining and moaning about how disappointed he was that you made it so far and failed–” His eyes immediately swivel to Eggsy’s form, just in time to see the violent flinch. “Ah, there it is. Much easier than I thought it would be.” 

“Shut it.” 

“I believe the exact words he used were, ‘What a waste. What a great, bloody waste. Merlin, I had high hopes for this boy. He was going to be great-’” 

“Merlin-“ 

“’One of the greatest, even. But he fucked it up-‘” 

“Stop,” It comes out in a rasp, guttural and pained. His hands clench in the fabric of his trousers. “Stop, okay? Yeah, I’m ‘ere ‘cause I’m ashamed and I’m feel bad, ‘cause if I’d just shot the damn dog I woulda been there with him instead of just watchin’ him get killed, ‘cause if I’d been better I woulda been in there and he wouldn’ be lyin’ there like he’s already dead. I was supposed to have his back and I didn’t and the last thing he thought of me was how fuckin’ disappointed he was and how I let ‘im down-” 

He pulls in a shaky breath, head bowed and feet determinedly not scraping against the floors in the way that always let his mum know when he did something he wasn’t supposed to. He clears his throat and murmurs, “So yeah, I’m feelin’ pretty shitty about all of that since I ain’t worth half the shit he’s gone through, and bein’ here at least gives me a chance of lettin’ him know how fuckin’ sorry I am for bein’ a piss-poor protégé before he’s back to fightin’ shape and can do more than just glare at me in a bed for wastin’ his time.” 

Merlin’s hand presses against the nape of Eggsy’s neck and squeezes carefully. Eggsy doesn’t look up at the gesture but he does release a shaky breath. “That would be why, then. Because I can tell you until I’m blue in the face that you’re possibly the best thing to happen to that man in the past three decades and you’ll still feel like that until he can tell you himself.” 

He releases Eggsy, shrugging. He glances over Harry’s vitals, marks them down on his iPad which is then deposited onto the side table, and glances at the wreck in the plastic chair. 

Even with his anguish open on his face, even as he curls in on himself and twists the fabric of his trousers in his fists, not a hair is out of place. His suit is spotless, minus the wrinkled thighs. His shoes shine, his tie is perfectly aligned, his glasses dustless and clear–Even his body itself, as it displays pain and guilt, has a sense of poise. His skin is neither flushed nor pale, nor are there tears hiding behind his eyes. 

Before Merlin had forced him to eat and shower, the boy had been just as remarkably composed. It reminds him uncomfortably of a younger Harry, straight out of training and ready to muddy his hands with fieldwork. 

He scoffs loudly, exasperation clear. “Stop looking so pathetic, Christ you’re a sad sight. It’s like the damn animal shelter ads looking at your face now. Harry’s temper got away from him, he took it out on you, and he hit where he knew it would hurt you the most. It happens. He didn’t mean it and will be unbelievably smug that his protégé saved the world once he wakes up. I won’t hear the end of it anytime soon.” 

He starts walking out, pauses, then adds, “We’re low on missions right now, and since you technically aren’t an agent, I don’t need you anywhere else for the foreseeable future. As long as you’re not stealing anyone’s car, you can sit here and weep while reading sappy poetry to waste time for as long as you want. Until I have something for you, at least.” 

“You’re an arse, bruv,” Eggsy chuckles a bit hoarsely, finally leaning back in his seat and looking up. “Thanks.” 

Merlin rolls his eyes before spinning on his heel and leaving. 

* * * * *  
Taking over as the King of the Kingsmen takes more time than Harry imagined. He had been working for Chester for his entire career, meaning he never saw any of the succession politics that surround the position. Traditionally, the position goes to the most senior agent, but Chester had broken that tradition decades ago after the eligible agents refused the “promotion”, leaving the Arthur position wide open for Harry to step in when no one else did. 

Before Harry’s return, most of the knights had had a rousing game of Hide and Seek with Merlin, who was tasked with formalizing all agents’ statuses when changes occur. Hence Merlin’s gritted demand that Harry take the damn job for the foreseeable future because he’s not fit for missions anyway and while seeing the sheer terror on the old men’s faces when he walks by is amusing, Kay needs to stop hiding and turn in the prototype-briefcases he lent him before he has to track him down himself—

(Gawain kindly stopped by during his recovery with a, “Good luck, you poor bastard” and a tall bottle of tequila he picked up on his last mission. Percival just laughed and threw him a two-fingered salute as he walked by on the way to the gym. Bors, apparently, hadn’t even known he was back in HQ, as he took a deep cover mission with minimal contact the second Arthur was confirmed to be six-feet under.) 

Fact is, Harry is starting to doubt that he’s writing actual words by the time his pen runs out of ink. After going to reach for his spare in his drawer and finding only a handful of paperclips, he groans and takes it as a sign to concede defeat. 

He adds a reminder on his iPad to stock up on office supplies—going by the amount of paperwork that’s accumulated in the handful of months they’ve been without a King, he’s going to need a ridiculous amount of pens even after he’s caught up. More manila file folders, too. He tries to scribbles a label on the latest one, cursing and rewriting over it until the last dredges of ink transfer to it. 

“Ridiculous, tedious, pitiful system,” He mutters. Barely looking over his shoulder, he tosses the useless carcass into the garbage bin. “Apparently, we’re still in the bloody Jurassic era. Pens when we have tablets, it’s disgusting.” 

An obnoxiously forceful knock raps at the door, and his lips curve into a tiny, reluctant grin. “Yes?” He calls out. 

Eggsy steps through with a cheeky smile before he gets the word out. His attire and slicked back hair are as suave as any blue blood’s wardrobe, and Harry feels the familiar burn of pride at the new agent’s composure. He’s settled into the work with an ease Harry has seen only in a handful, and they’ve all survived to be Harry’s age or older. It bodes well for the boy. 

“Done yet, bruv? Mum’s out for the night so I got Dais ‘til tomorrow. Figured we could walk together since mum’s is right near yours. Alright?” 

He’ll have to start watching Eggsy’s speech again as the boy’s getting lazy. For now, though, Harry wants nothing more than to leave and maybe help him pick out a bauble or two for little Daisy. Eggsy always claims it’ll be the last time he buys her something before Christmas, but Harry can see that irrepressible need to pamper and protect that spikes whenever something catches his eye. 

(Last week, he picked up a pad of butterfly stickers and an Iron Man action figure. Eggsy made it clear that Daisy should have options with her toys because he read somewhere that separating toys into “boy” and “girl” categories can stunt emotional growth if Daisy doesn’t like all of the girl stuff. Harry’s not certain about the validity of whatever journal he pulled that information out of, but Daisy enjoyed both gifts and Iron Man has a permanent spot next to her nightlight as a fellow guardian of all things spooky and dark.) 

“Yes, that’s fine. Give me a moment to get my things together.” Harry’s eyes dart to the scattered papers and wince briefly. “Well, maybe two moments.” 

Eggsy laughs, face bright and cheerful as ever. “I woulda thought Merlin had everyone fillin’ this shit online by now. Ain’t very eco-friendly havin’ all the papers.” 

Harry nods as he starts to shuffle papers and staple handfuls together at a time, placing them in a precarious stack near the edge of his desk. “Yes, well, killing a few trees is better than having this information easier to access. That’s the official reason for this shit, anyway.” 

“I don’t follow. Merlin’s well smart, the information ain’t easy to access if he don’t wan it to be, innit?” Eggsy leans against the desk. He fiddles with Harry’s tape dispenser until Harry slaps his hand away. With a pout, he crosses his arms. 

“Unfortunately, we’ve found having hard copies is safer than any technological alternatives. At least for any paperwork with the Arthur position and A class missions. Most of the work you’ll be filling out will be on our servers because the world won’t end if anyone hears about your completed missions. 

“For the important things, though, it’s more prudent to keep it on paper. We can shred and destroy any information when we’re done with it without having to log on to the servers. Our headquarters is well hidden and multiple agents are here at any time. Few of our enemies would be able to find where we are, and those that can prefer fighting where they have the advantage. We’d have the home advantage if they attacked us here and it’s strategically moronic to give us that. 

“Additionally, we almost never have any moles we aren’t already aware of (the previous Arthur and his compatriots notwithstanding) and only I and anyone I personally hand them to can have access to these files. It’s more secure, having only me with access but everyone else’s considerable skills protecting this office and therefore these files. Having it on a network would make Merlin and his coworkers the only ones who could protect the information from intruders as well, whereas hard copies are guarded by everyone in the building, locks, and other low-tech options that a hacker couldn’t get past,” Harry grumbles. “At least, that’s Merlin’s explanation. I think a couple of leaks would be worth the time saved by not having to fill out these damn things in triplicate.” He slams a file on top of the pile vigorously, only to start cursing as it starts to topple. Eggsy helpfully catches the majority, but a few slip underneath his desk and out near his trashcan. The white leafs fan out mockingly. 

“Efficient system, innit?” Eggsy laughs. He straightens the group in his arms as Harry kneels to reach the ones under his chair. “Think Merlin’s shittin’ you. Probably revenge for you wreckin’ them glasses. Give you some old-school busy work to make you really appreciate ‘is tech.” 

Harry grasps around blindly for papers, hissing when he hears a telling riiiiip. He leans back just in time to see Eggsy drop the pile of work onto his desk and turn around to reach the ones that went the farthest away. “At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case.” His eyes linger on Eggsy’s form as he leans down to grab the wayward forms, and he asks, “You said it’s just you and Daisy tonight, yes?” 

“Yeah. Mum’s goin’ to a coworker’s birthday ‘cross town. They’re gettin’ a hotel room so they ain’t drivin’ home late pissed.” Eggsy’s smile turns soft, like it always does when he talks about his family. He hands Harry the remaining papers without a second glance, shrugging sheepishly. “’m glad she’s makin’ friends. After Dean and everythin’, I was worried ‘bout her. She’s doin’ good though. And that leaves me and Dais to get some time together too.” 

“Is there any chance I can interest you two in joining me for dinner?” Harry’s careful with his tone. “I’m planning on making a pasta dish and overestimated the ingredients. I’ll have leftovers for weeks if I can’t pawn some off on you.” He reorganized the files one last time before shoving them unceremoniously into his desk drawer. He locks it with his handprint scan, and then again with a passcode, eyes averted in an attempt to keep from pressuring his boy. 

Eggsy doesn’t answer for a moment, and Harry can visualize his wide, surprised eyes. “Yeah! That’s perfect, bruv. Dais’s been picky lately and I been thinkin’ I’d have to go for chicken nuggets again. She’s good with pasta though, I’m just shit at cookin’ it so I thought it was off the table.” Eggsy pauses briefly, before adding, “Uh, she’s better ‘bout not throwin’ food, but you might wanna wear somethin’ that ain’t worth a month’s salary, yeah? Just in case.” 

“Of course, Eggsy.” Harry’s eyes crinkle at the corners with the force of his smile. He slides into his jacket, grabs his keys, and starts towards the door. “Let’s be on our way then. We don’t want to keep Lady Daisy waiting on dinner, now do we?” 

(Eggsy nabs a shark plush on their way to Michelle’s. He also picks out a pack of flowery themed pens for Harry after the man complains about running out. Harry pays for them both when Eggsy’s distracted by cooing at a newborn in line behind them and asking the mother about its name and age. 

“Didn’ have to do that, bruv. ‘Specially not when you’re feedin’ us already.” 

“It’s not a problem. Think nothing of it.”) 

Harry does end up getting a glob of pasta to the face, courtesy of young Lady Daisy. Eggsy somehow manages to laugh while looking sheepish, but at least he hands Harry a spare napkin right away. When he feels nothing but wry amusement, he realizes what Merlin meant when he claimed Harry reeked of fondness for the Unwin children. 

Because Harry knows more than is strictly proper to know about his protégé, dessert comes in the form of a layered chocolate raspberry cake reminiscent of the one he saw Eggsy staring and drooling at on his last mission. Eggsy’s eyes light up and he says, “Shit, that looks brill. You ain’t half bad at this hostin’ thing.” 

It feels like an indulgence watching Eggsy’s easy joy at the tiny pleasures in life. Watching him drop the stiffness he trained into the boy, watching him smile and let his sister paint his face with chocolate icing as she babbles like the infant she is, watching him laugh when Harry presses a dollop of raspberry cream onto Daisy’s nose and she shrieks with happiness—It feels like a luxury too decadent for an old man like him. 

He’s a selfish old man, though. That’s why he doesn’t discourage Eggsy’s eyes lingering on his smile and why he lets his fingertips brush against the boy’s, just so lightly, to watch his pupils flare briefly. 

It’s intoxicating; the way Eggsy leans into every nudge Harry gives him is enough to keep Harry disgustingly satisfied for days. He’ll never push the boy farther, his age and guilt more than satisfactory at cooling his most immoral urges, but toeing the line between propriety and sin thrills him. 

When Eggsy falls asleep on his couch after dessert and two Disney movies, Daisy snug in his arms and her face pressed to his neck, he can’t resist brushing the boy’s hair out of his face. He can’t resist lingering against the gentle curve of Eggsy’s brow, smoothed out in sleep. And if, as he’s draping a blanket over the two, he presses a tender kiss to said brow, that’s his cross to bear. 

He admits, on his way back to headquarters, that it was disappointing waking up to Eggsy and Daisy already long gone to meet Daisy’s sitter for the day. Expected, yes, but disappointing nonetheless. With a slightly envious glance towards Bors on his way to the gym, Harry heads toward his office. His phone buzzes with a reminder to sit in on the candidate meeting later in the day. Since they just had the Lancelot trials, most of the agents eligible to submit proposals have no one in mind, meaning most are skimming through lists of military personnel for upwards of three candidates. They hold meetings weekly, yet no recruits have been brought in quite yet. Harry, however, has submitted his last proposal in Eggsy, which means he has his own duties as Arthur to fulfill and his own research and paperwork to handle. 

Merlin accosts him before he reaches his doorway, lips pressing tightly together as he walks beside Harry. Sans greeting, he bluntly asks, “I don’t suppose you actually made a dent in any of the mission reports yet, did you?” 

“As a matter of fact, I did. The only casualty’s my dominant hand. Which wouldn’t be a problem, if we went completely digital—“ 

“Did you get to the one about Bolivia?” He interrupts impatiently. 

“Bossy today, are we? Yes, I saw it. Why?” 

“Who did it say was scheduled to be in contact with Kay?” 

Harry stops completely, raising an eyebrow. “If I’m not mistaken, it said you were.” He adjusts his tie, eyes never leaving Merlin. 

Merlin’s lips thin further. “That’s what I was hoping you wouldn’t say.” 

“I take it you weren’t on call for the Bolivia assignment.” 

“I didn’t even know about it. Kay just got back. He asked me who walked him through since it didn’t sound like anyone he partnered with before. He thought it might’ve been our newest, up until I told him she was a woman.” 

“He completed the assignment?” 

“Superbly. Kay said whatever contact he was speaking to knew their stuff. He’s writing up his post-report now.” 

“Read it before bringing it to me. Are you aware of any other inconsistencies?” 

Merlin huffs angrily. “Now that I know I’m looking for them, I’ll have a list for you in an hour. Go through on your end too.” He storms off, muttering, “First some twat steals my stylus, now this bull—“ 

Harry closes his eyes briefly, counting his breaths. An unwelcome, but not wholly unexpected turn of events. In addition to the list of current moles allowed to believe their own secrecy in Kingsman being “mysteriously” misplaced by Chester, the previous Arthur had been more corrupt than most of the agents were aware. His alliance with Valentine, while undoubtedly horrible, is only his most obvious betrayal. Furthermore, while only three agents had been similarly aligned in the Valentine conflict, Harry can’t say for sure who knows about the rest of Chester’s corruption. He feels unsettled without the convenience of trusting his fellow Kingsman. For decades, he trusted not only Chester but also the other agents blindly, never looking past his own responsibilities or questioning his or their orders. There were one or two missions he knew had missing information and “misplaced” connections, but nothing to the scale of what apparently has been happening underneath the surface. He had mistakenly assumed that it was normal for spy organizations to have that level of incongruity. 

Merlin didn’t have to bring it to his attention that there were problems and misplaced information. The handwritten notes Chester left behind attest to the flaws of their system. However, with a mission as recent as the Bolivia one—which had taken place only a month ago, after Chester’s death—it means Harry and Merlin have a larger problem. That problem being that someone still loyal to Chester, Valentine, both, or a new third-party that’s taking advantage of their recent upheaval and low numbers, has access to their systems. Access that Merlin hadn’t suspected until someone brought it up directly to him. 

He steels himself for a tedious day of fact checking and organizing. His office looks ominous and foreboding until he flicks the lights switch on. He hangs his jacket by the door and hooks his umbrella on the arm of his chair before he takes his seat. With a dry chuckle, he plucks the pack of flower-themed pens out of his pocket and deposits them into the top drawer at his desk. He hadn’t planned on using them, but between Daisy’s exuberance and Eggsy’s mere presence, the motivation to leave them for a quick stop at the store to get neutral dissipated completely. 

He picks one decorated with sunflowers to start. Unlocking his drawer, he reaches for the topmost file and pauses. 

“Of course I find you right when I opened the pack,” He sighs, picking up the black pen. “Today’s off to a great fucking start.” 

* * * * 

“Okay okay okay wait, I’ve a good one. Ready?” 

“Lay it on me.” 

“ScarJo, Keira Knightley, Jennifer Lawrence.” 

“Kill Jennifer, fuck Keira, and marry Scarlett.” 

“Reasons?” 

“Pretty clear, I think. Knightley’s fine, but nothing spectacular in the long run. We’d just get bored of each other. One night’s enough. ScarJo’s perfect, I don’t have to explain why I’d marry her. And Jennifer Lawerence— I absolutely hated her as Katniss and I’m still bitter about it.” 

“F’real?” 

“As fascinating as it is to see how modern teenagers keep themselves busy, it seems I must remind you two that you are in fact on an assignment,” Merlin’s voice admonishes them sharply. “Or have you forgotten that Ms. DeCoeur still is tracker-less?” 

“Not for long,” Roxy singsongs quietly, grinning into her drink. She takes a sip, clears her throat, and says, pointedly louder as an old man leaves the bar, “Gary, luv, as thrilling as this has been, there’s a stunning lady behind you. I have been eying her all night and now that she’s finished her conversation, I wish to order her a drink. So shoo.” She waves him out of his chair, giggling drunkenly, and he stumbles convincingly across the floor with a snort and muttered, “That’s what I get for playin’ wingman, I s’pose.” 

Roxy puts her glass down, glancing through her lashes at the blonde woman seated in the chair behind Eggsy’s evacuated stool. With exaggerated elegance as a blatant indicator of her tipsiness, she drawls, “I believe I heard you order a sangria last, Miss…?” 

“If you’re buying me a drink, you can call me Gabrielle,” She winks, Roxy grins crookedly, and Eggsy stations himself near the dance floor in a shadowed corner. 

“Y’know, we had it handled. Rox and I ain’t dumb,” Eggsy says quietly to Merlin. “We was playin’ up bein’ the bored teens and establishin’ that Rox likes chicks. I know we’re new but we got this.” 

There’s a pause. “My apologies. It’s been a bloody mess over here. We have a problem on the servers and I’ve been investigating it all day. I’m monitoring your assignment while continuing to work since it’s low-risk.” 

“Aw, we ain’t worth your full attention? I see how it is, bruv.” He chuckles. “What’s the problem? Percy download too much wankin’ material?” 

“If only,” Merlin mutters. “It’d certainly be easier to sort out then this fucking train wreck.” 

“Oi look, Rox’s drank enough to start gettin’ believably handsy. ‘Gabrielle’ seems thrilled.” Eggsy keeps his gaze centered mainly on the target, who’s letting Roxy pat her hair and press a thumb against her cheek, which then slips off as Roxy falls out of her seat. Gabrielle laughs and helps her back up, hands lingering on Roxy’s shoulders. “Guess that’s what they mean when they talk ‘bout hookin’ up at weddin’s. Wish I’d known it was this easy at these things, woulda gone to Jamal’s brother’s.” 

“You’ve never taken someone home after a wedding? I’m shocked,” Merlin comments dryly. 

Eggsy grimaces. “Last weddin’ I went to was mum’s and Dean’s, and I was ten, bruv. Probably a good thing I didn’t pick no one up then.” 

“Agreed. Well, it seems Lancelot has placed the tracker. See if she wants an extraction.” 

“’If she wants’?” 

“She seems to be having a good time. If she wants to screw DeCoeur, that’s her business. You’re both off the clock.” 

“But that’s unprofessional, innit? Sleepin’ with the target when s’not in the mission, I mean.” 

“You do know Lancelot had a legitimate invitation to this wedding, right? It’s a school friend of hers, I believe. She would’ve attended whether we made it a mission or not, which means there’s little chance she’s in any danger as an actual guest. I wouldn’t recommend you remaining, but she’s fine.” 

Eggsy’s stomach churns. He starts walking back towards the bar in an attempt to ignore it. “Doesn’t sound right, doin’ it on the job like this. What if DeCoeur’s suspicious?” 

He flushes at the long pause, knowing that Merlin’s eyebrow would be raised condescendingly. “I’ll keep her link connected just to be safe.” There’s another, telling, pause. “You know, I thought it was about Harry. But you’re a natural worrywart, aren’t you?” 

Eggsy doesn’t respond, because he’s reached Roxy and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, I’m goin’ to head out. You ridin’ with me? Mum’ll let you use the guest room if you want.” 

Roxy’s eyes dart between Eggsy and Gabrielle, and Eggsy gives a tiny nod of permission. Her eyes linger on Gabrielle, who smiles toothily and beckons her back to their conversation with a crooked finger and bedroom eyes. 

She grins widely and shakes her head. “’m good here, thanks luv. I’ll call you tomorrow.” 

Eggsy warns, “Be safe,” before turning around and leaving. 

The night air outside of the hotel is a brisk relief from the steamy ballroom. He sucks in a deep breath before releasing it in a gusty sigh. “Doin’ alright, Merlin?” 

“Why?” 

“Just wonderin’. You said you was workin’ on that server problem all day. Must be frustratin’.” 

“You have no idea.” 

“Want me to bring you somethin’? Take out, a pint, gun to shoot the router with?” Eggsy starts wandering in the direction of the Tube, hands in his pockets. Even with his “upgrade” and refined skills, he still feels anxious walking the streets alone without his mates. Jamal’s always had his back, especially when Dean was on a rampage and searching the streets for him. “Wait, lemme guess: Coffee that isn’t shit? That’s it, innit?” 

He grins at the extended hesitation. Merlin’s silences are more telling than the bitterness his mouth spews. 

“Got it. Gimme an hour-ish. Promise I won’t tell Harry you’re drinkin’ somethin’ so un-gentlemanly.” He flicks off the connection before the techie can argue. 

Eggsy’s content is tenuous at best, but he wants to soak in it for as long as he can. He feels amazing knowing that everyone he cares about is doing well. He and Roxy are starting with low-risk missions, meaning they can have a bit of fun before their lives are in danger again. Mum and Daisy have a new, safer place to stay, and the divorce papers are (finally, slowly) being processed. Merlin’s locked up in HQ with his tech, none of which has Valentine’s fingerprints on it, and he couldn’t be in a safer place. Harry is decidedly not dead (which is the best damn icing on the victory cake Eggsy could ask for) and he’s been relegated to a safe, relaxing desk job. 

(Well, as much of a desk job as a Kingsman could have.) 

Hell, he just deposited half of his last paycheck into a couple of mates’ accounts and the other half was split between savings for Mum and Daisy. Eggsy’s never felt so proud of himself before. It’s a warm gentle feeling. Similar to the overwhelmingly hot intensity that Eggsy gets from Harry’s pride, but more comforting. 

There’s always more to improve on, he notes silently as he crosses the street and avoids a puddle. He still has to secure Harry’s approval, as Eggsy’s future in the Kingsmen remains uncertain, but with Harry inviting him and Daisy to dinner and indulging Eggsy’s presence more often than not, it isn’t as daunting a task as it had been before he woke up. 

The Tube is quiet and nearly empty. A handful of teenagers chat quietly in their seats behind a sleeping, gritty-looking man. A woman with a shopping bag sits down with a breath of relief and tugs off one of her heels. As she digs her thumb into the ball of her left foot, Eggsy takes his place near the exit easiest to get out of, not bothering with a seat for the short trip. It jerks to start and he grabs a handle. 

Merlin, too, remains more standoffish than Eggsy’d like, but it’s not hopeless. He responds well to banter—More respectful banter than the type he engages in with Roxy and Mum—And intelligent questions. The man likes to preen almost as much as Harry does. 

For the most part, he plays along and behaves well enough. It’s easy to keep his head low instead of snapping angrily when he reminds himself that they didn’t have to accept him as an agent after V-Day. Letting them lie to him and order him around, while irritating, is better than not having this job. 

His position’s precarious; he knows it is, and that means he needs to be exceptional. Roxy earned her spot traditionally, which translates to if anyone gives her shit for being the only Kingswoman, she can say, “I went through the same process you did, so fuck off.” 

(Not that she would, of course, but she has a right to and totally could.) 

Eggsy, on the other hand, has one extenuating circumstance to account for his spot as a Kingsman. If there’d been anyone else in his position on V-Day, they could’ve handled the situation too, so it’s not even a situation that he could claim ownership of. Hell, Harry could’ve handled it if he hadn’t been in a hospital in Kentucky. 

The Tube jerks to an almost obnoxious stop, and the teenagers depart, taking their quiet laughter with them. 

He’s not dumb, even if he’s not as sharp as Roxy, but he knows people better than she does. He knows that the old men look down on them both, even if Harry and Merlin have soft spots for the young’uns. If anything, the blatant fondness from two of the “bosses” makes it worse. Gawain’s by far the worst, followed by Kay. Bors doesn’t care about much in general as long as he has something to shoot, but Eggsy can tell he’ll side with his peers before vouching for either of the new agents. Percy seems like decent sort, but Eggsy hasn’t talked to the man outside of weekly meetings. Roxy vouches for him though, so there’s that. 

Essentially, Eggsy knows that he’ll never earn their respect, especially without having passed training traditionally. He can be the best agent in the field and help save the world three times over, and they’ll still look down on him. His life isn’t a Disney movie. 

But if there’s ever a situation where it’s his word against theirs, he doesn’t want anyone having a reason to disbelieve him other than his class. For that, he needs to be exceptional. Being average won’t give him any sway in the organization. If he’s an asset, they’ll think twice before kicking him to the curb. 

He’ll always have his roots; he knows he’ll never be a gentleman to the level that Harry is, not with his rough edges, but he can certainly show that he’s a reliable, great agent. If that means biting his tongue and accepting lies from Harry and Merlin and pretending everything’s roses in Kingsman, he can handle that. 

It’s finally his stop. He scurries off after taking an extra moment to slip a tenner into the sleeping man’s pocket. 

(Reverse pickpocketing is his new favorite hobby. Using old skills for good—Yeah, it’s a bit of a rush every time. Give him a chance to steal a car for the well being of the world and he’ll be tickled pink for weeks.) 

The café he stops in is an old favorite. The soft blue and brown hues of the décor are calming, the scent of cinnamon and coffee welcoming him like a faithful friend. The servers gave him free refills when he came in with a black eye, and one or two of the younger ones who had seen Dean dragging him off by the ear added an extra scone to his order with lame excuses Eggsy had felt pathetically grateful for at the time. They’re good people, and Eggsy likes that he can pay them back and be a visible reminder that little kindnesses make a difference. He certainly wouldn’t have made it without Harry, but he wouldn’t have even made it to meet Harry if people hadn’t helped keep him afloat until then. 

It’s late on the edge of closing time. He orders enough to make them staying open an extra three minutes worthwhile and leaves the largest tip he could manage without looking pretentious. When the barista hands him his order, she winks. “Good to see you’re doin’ alright luv. We were startin’ to wonder if we’d see your ugly mug again.” 

He laughs and nods. “Thanks babe. You doin’ alright too, I see. I’ll try stoppin’ by more. Dunno how I’ve gone this long without your treats. A fuckin’ sin, that’s what it is.” 

The paper bag has at least ten goods in it, and the drink container holds four cups—Coffee for Merlin, a hot tea only slightly better than what they have at HQ for Harry, and two hot chocolates (one for himself, one extra. Someone will drink it, doesn’t matter who). 

From there, Eggsy hastens his pace to the shop. He’s relaxed a bit, now that he’s out of the immediate area of Dean’s “territory”. Knowing, logically, that the bastard wouldn’t dare start anything now doesn’t erase years of wariness. Being closer to HQ keeps him at ease for the most part since Harry’s hinted at the excessive security measures. 

Maybe that’s why he only startles slightly when he realizes someone’s eying him across the street, only a handful of blocks away from Kingsman. Dressed in ratty, dirty clothing, the kid’s seen better days. He can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl, as tiny and unformed as they are, but they’ve seen better days. There’s mud caked along their sneakers—he’d put money on half of it being something other than mud, too—and the hood’s pulled low over their eyes. They fidget with their hands, repeatedly touching something in the kangaroo pocket of their sweater. 

Eggsy’s first thought is, “Who sent this kid out without any training?” His second thought, after he dismisses the possibility of a lingering Valentine supporter, when the form ends up being even smaller than first glance, is, “That was me as a kid, pickin’ someone to nab from.” 

“Shit,” He breathes, a stunning realization on his heels. “I’m old and posh enough to get my shit stolen. Fuck.” 

There’s a giddy type of joy building up, leading him to bounce on his heels lightly. He slows his gait and impatiently waits with a thought of, “C’mon c’mon you can do it c’mon—“ 

The kid’s more hesitant than Eggsy had ever been, if they’re just going for his pocket. They cross the street far behind him, catching up slowly. He takes his pace even slower, remembering the fine line between being too hesitant and too forward in the venture. Before he turned twelve, he was at least three heads shorter than most of his marks, and while it gained him sympathy when he (inevitably) got caught, scoring was incredibly difficult when he had to reach up to grab around their hips, let alone slip a hand in. It made him more cautious when picking out who to try. 

In minutes, Eggsy feels tiny hands shove at his thighs in the direction of an alleyway. He doesn’t bother faking a stumble, just places his café goodies on the ground and turning to face them. With a raised eyebrow, his eyes flick to the trembling knife held out in his direction. 

“Gimme the wallet,” The voice is hoarse, but noticeably feminine. The hoarseness could be from illness or from being choked, Eggsy notes. He grimaces slightly, sympathetically. “Ain’t gonna hurt’chu if you hand it over now, guv.” 

It’s never easy to predict how kids react, so he takes the easiest route. “What do you need it for?” He asks gently. 

She snorts in disgust, head turning and glancing behind her before asking acidly, “Whaddya care for? Just hand it over, c’mon.” 

“F’real, tell me. Why you doin’ this?” 

Eggsy watches as she rocks on her feet, repeatedly glancing behind her. There’s fear in her posture. It doesn’t take a genius to tell she’s never threatened someone before. It’s new, then. She can’t be older than eight or nine, and he whistles lowly at that realization. 

“Look, I just ain’t endorsin’ no drugs. If you want cash for that, won’t give you mine. But family’s different, innit?” Eggsy presses. She flinches sharply, knife wavering more. “Yep. Family. Who’s it, then? Mum?” 

She’s young enough to have been caught off balance by that, then. It’s difficult, with low-class, undernourished kids, but he’d put her at ten at the oldest, seven at the youngest. Her mouth opens a couple of times before she manages to say, “Me Da. He’s just laid off, yeah? Me sister left so it’s just me ‘n him, an’ it wasn’t bad for awhile. ‘s bad now though. Rent’s due and he’s scared.” 

He nods, softening. “I understand. How much’s the rent?” He’d be surprised if she really understood what rent is and why it stresses her Da out. Then again, he ruminates, kids see more than adults want, and they understand most of it even if adults think they don’t. She could understand that they won’t have a home without the money. It could be why she’s desperate enough to try something she saw on late-night telly while Da was out, working or drinking or begging. 

“I dunno.” She shrugs, and finally the knife goes down. With her closer, he can see it’s a dull kitchen instrument. Probably used to cut onions. He’s impressed she managed to reach the counter to grab it. There’s a fuzzy memory he has of using unopened boxes from their move to reach the cereal box while Mum went to work. If she’s smarter than he was, she had probably used a stool or chair that was steadier and less likely to buckle. “Too much.” 

She must be eight-ish. Gutsy enough to try, not enough experience with people to make it work. Enough independence to pick a channel that’s too mature for her without understanding it’s bad for her and get this idea in her head. She’s lucky she picked him. 

“How ‘bout this—“ Eggsy pulls off his watch—an actual fancy one he splurged on, not the Kingsman-owned one. It was the only treat he allowed himself from the V-Day payment he received—and digs through his pockets to grab his wallet. Without counting, he pulls out every bill he has and one of the business cards he carries around. He fumbles for a pen and scribbles onto the card before holding the watch, money, and card out to her. “You take what I got on me and see if that’s enough. The watch’s worth a bit so you can sell it at a good place. Try the jewelry store on Savile Row, got it? They’ll give you a good deal if you show them the card, tell them Eggsy said s’alright. If all that ain’t enough for a couple months while your Da gets back on his feet, you call that number. As long as you say the words I wrote, me or my friend’ll take care of it.” 

For a brief second, she looks at him uncertainly. He’s glad that she’s young enough to want an easy solution and won’t look into his offer too deeply. He waits until she takes it in trembling, scared fingers before patting her still-hooded head gently. 

“Don’t threaten no one else, y’hear? Ain’t normal for a bloke to help a girl like you out, and not everyone’s as nice as me. Look after yourself and don’t corner bigger blokes than you. You’ll get hurt. Got it?” 

She nods hurriedly as she shoves everything into her kangaroo pouch. 

“While I’m bein’ all helpful and shit too, do good in school. It’ll make your life much easier later on, yeah? Nice advantage, havin’ teachers think you’re an angel while you’re stealin’ their shit innit?” He grins, and she giggles. “You like hot chocolate, bruv? Was gonna give it to my friend, but she’s takin’ too long and it’ll be cold by then. Take it for the road, c’mon. ‘Bout a scone too, there we go.” 

He wonders, a little sadly, when the last time she got a treat was. By the covetous, ecstatic look she gives the cup as he hands it to her, it’s been too long. Her tiny hands wrap around it, large sleeves dangling off her wrists. He hand her the scone too, which she shoves into her pocket as well. 

“Thanks bruv.” She whispers, suddenly shy. She sips at the cocoa, her free hand pressed tightly against her abdomen where her prizes lay. 

Eggsy pats her head one last time. “Alright gettin’ home by yourself?” 

“Yeah, ‘m right down there.” She points helpfully. Noting the street, he nods and stores the information away for later. 

“Off you get then. Da’s probably sick worryin’ ‘bout you.” 

With a last, hesitant wave, she scampers off. 

“Where the hell did you get this from? It’s ice cold,” Merlin grumbles bitterly. He doesn’t stop drinking, but he seems displeased about it. “I assumed me wanting ‘hot’ coffee was implied when you offered.” 

Eggsy shrugs. “Sorry, thought the Tube was shorter than it was. Could nuke it in the microwave if it’s that bad.” He leans to look over Merlin’s shoulder, sighing loudly when the man shoves him away with a palm to his forehead. “C’mon, maybe I can help. Been workin’ this all day, haven’t you? S’more helpful to get a new look at it than keep goin’ at it the same way, innit? Maybe take a break and remind yourself what your house looks like?” 

“I’m sorry, did you learn how to program?” Merlin asks, faux-surprised. His eyes radiate biting iciness. If Eggsy didn’t already trust the man, he’d be concerned by the amount of disdain being spat his way. “I didn’t think you had time to learn an entire new language when you’re busy kissing arse.” 

“Ouch, bruv.” Eggsy mimes taking a stake to the chest. “Is this how you get when you’re cranky? Should buy your rookies earplugs so their tears don’t drench the tech.” 

“Shut it, brownnoser. What do you want, anyway?” 

“Still have an eye on Rox, yeah?” 

Merlin groans. “Yes, you irritating mother hen. Lancelot’s doing perfectly fine if the pornographic sounds coming from her tablet are any indication.” 

Eggsy holds up his hands defensively. “’Kay, sorry. Just checkin’. I’ll leave you to your work, bruv. Might wanna take a break sometime soon, yeah?” 

“Mind your own business, Galahad.” 

He leaves, sipping at his long-cooled drink. It’s gross chocolate milk at that point, but Mum didn’t raise him to waste. The bag of scones is dropped on top of the mini fridge in the conference room, a free-for-all treat that the older agents may or may not deign to lower themselves to eat. 

Merlin’s worrying him, more than anyone else in his life at the moment. Whether it’s him being a “mother hen” or an actual cause for concern isn’t clear, but Eggsy’s fairly certain that staying in HQ for four consecutive days isn’t good. There’s facilities for overnight stays but he’d be shocked if Merlin had been using them for anything other than a shower. The dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of days without reliable sleep. 

Harry’s office is his next stop, so he may as well bring it up with him. Turn off Harry’s glasses so Merlin doesn’t hear his concerns and he won’t be able to argue since he’s locked himself up in the lab. 

Eggsy knocks obnoxiously, as he always does—Harry had kicked him out multiple times and threatened to stun him if he didn’t start knocking like a gentleman. Eggsy claimed the first time that since it’s easier on Harry’s old man ears if he pounds on the door as loud as possible, he’s going above and beyond gentlemanly procedure. 

It makes his mentor laugh, so yeah, Eggsy isn’t going to stop anytime soon. 

He saunters in only a step before wincing and backing up. Harry’s head is lying on the desk, a thin line of drool connecting him to the file beneath him. Eggsy can just barely see ink stains on Harry’s fingertips that hang over the edge of the desk. If he’s not mistaken, there’s a paper cut on his right ring finger that oozed a single droplet of blood. The fact that he hadn’t woken up when Eggsy knocked speaks volumes about his exhaustion.

It’s terribly endearing, seeing the man at ease like this. He leans against the doorframe and chuckles as quietly as he can manage. He knows, logically, that Harry’s human like everyone else. He forgets that easily, though. Harry started out as an idol Eggsy admired for plucking him out of his own brand of Hell, and after his ‘resurrection’ Eggsy became a more fervid devotee. Working alongside the man has tempered Eggsy’s adoration, but vulnerable moments like this keep him grounded in reality. Harry’s a man who drools in his sleep just like anyone else. 

It’s soothing. Eggsy feels his own exhaustion creeping up now that he’s finally stopped moving for longer than thirty seconds. Harry needs the sleep, Eggsy needs to get home so he can sleep, and he should leave to make both of those happen. 

On the other hand, Harry’s not getting any younger and will not be happy if he wakes up tomorrow with a sore neck. He’ll wake up with a migraine if he doesn’t move soon. 

Carefully, he places the cup of now freezing tea on the ground before reaching into the mug of pens on the desk. He tugs the cap off, gets out of Harry’s immediate line of sight, and takes aim. 

His head snaps up as the cap bounces off his forehead, his hands grasping for a gun as his gaze darts around the office. Eggsy says, lightly, “C’mon, old man. Bedtime for senior citizens, innit?” 

For long minutes, the only noise is Harry’s harsh breathing. Eggsy has only woken the man up a handful of times before, but he knows better than to rush him. He reorients himself after a bit, and snidely says, “I’m fairly certain children should’ve been asleep ages ago, my boy.” 

With a light grin and casual shrug, Eggsy says, “Gotta take care of the elders first bruv. And since Merlin won’t let me fuss, you’re next on my list.” 

“I’m honored,” He replies. Neither acknowledges the sincerity in his voice, vulnerabilities peeking out from his exhausted demeanor. Eggsy gets it. 

“Yeah, and I’m ready to go home. So move your arse,” Eggsy retorts. “The rest of this’ll wait ‘til tomorrow.” 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Harry smiles a tiny smile. He rolls his neck as he stands up, shuffling files into some semblance of an order. One is conspicuously left in his arms after the rest are secreted away. “Could I request a favor?” 

“Anythin’ bruv. Whaddya need?” It’s automatic, rolls off his tongue before he consciously processes the question. For Harry, he would do anything, so it’s not like his instinctive answer was wrong. 

Harry holds out the remaining file. It’s thick, probably the equivalent of four of the other files stuck inside of each other. “Take it home, take tomorrow off if you have to, and read all of it. When you get back, give me your opinion. Any observations, anything that strikes you as critical—I want to hear it all.” 

Eggsy sighs. “Shoulda figured you’d be givin’ me homework. Yeah, got it.” It’s a hefty thing. He takes the manila folder, tucking it under his arm and heading towards the door. “C’mon, bedtime. Today’s been fuckin’ long.” 

“Thank you, Eggsy.” 

Harry slides his jacket on and leaves, shutting the office door behind him. 

“Mind if we stop by Merlin’s to check on Rox real quick?” 

* * * * * 

He closes the file carefully, scowl etched onto his face. It’s obvious—So obvious, it concerns him that it took Harry weeks to put it together. The sun’s starting to peek over the horizon, casting a glow over the three energy drinks he’d pounded around four to keep him going. 

The inconsistencies, so slight that no one would notice until it’s too late, are written down in a notebook Mum had lying around. A list of names and dates stares back at him, an ominous sign. Three names pop up too often to be a coincidence, and one name is conspicuously absent. He has crumbled balls of theories surrounding his feet, the remaining ones that could be still in the notebook. 

The one that Eggsy is certain about is in his head. He turns it over and over as he picks up the debris to toss, like he used to turn Da’s medal over in his hands on the roughest days, until it’s well known and warm like a favorite pair of gloves. 

He knows Harry hadn’t thought of it. If he had, there’d be five positions and a ghost operative to fill in the main ring of Kingsman instead of three. The man wouldn’t have been able to control himself. Eggsy’s less devoted to Kingsman, however, which means he can start making breakfast and contemplate what to do next. 

Harry won’t be objective about this. He’s the “rebel” of the older agents, will do what’s “Right” rather than what’ll benefit everyone because what’ll benefit everyone is the course of action Chester would’ve told them to take. It’s one of Eggsy’s favorite things about Harry, but with an entire organization’s fate resting on using the situation they can’t afford that type of attitude. Chester was scum, but Eggsy knows how to think like the man. He can see exactly how Chester would spin this to his advantage, would use it to make others look at him in awe. 

Harry, bless him, can only ever be Harry. 

The toaster dings and pops up too perfectly browned pieces of toast, which Eggsy starts buttering immediately. It had taken a week when he first bought his little flat, but he finally found the perfect setting for perfect toast and a day hasn’t gone by without him thanking Harry mentally for everything he’s directly or indirectly given him. Perfect toast as opposed to stale, scorched bread? One of the many, many blessings of his new life. 

(For Harry, Eggsy can work this. He certainly wouldn’t do this for Kingsman. But for Harry? Yeah, Eggsy can do it.) 

It’s clear, from Harry’s notes scribbled in the margins, that he thinks there’s one mole. He doesn’t know who it is but suspects the man is in Merlin’s department and keeping a low profile. He may be working with MI6, but it’s unclear who would benefit from helping them while ruining their records. 

Eggsy’s got it, though. Maybe it’s from years of looking over Dean’s books and being able to point out, “Yeah, Rott’s skimmin’ off the top but the real thing you need to worry ‘bout is Kev’s deals, they ain’t addin’ up. On me heart, I ain’t lyin—!” but Eggsy has a knack for this. 

If Harry’s taking over after Chester’s dirtied everything up, well, Eggsy killed the man, didn’t he?

It’s only fair he cleans up the mess left behind. 

He’s still reveling in the satisfying crunch from his breakfast when he steps into Harry’s office.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a fun chapter! Very good for stress relief in between studying for finals, I gotta say. Mostly this was just to set up some stuff for plot and show how everyone else sees Eggsy. (Or should I say, underestimates Eggsy?) 
> 
> Roxy's POV was hard, ngl, and I rushed at the end a bit, so I might go back and revise Harry's and Roxy's POV later. I'll be sure to let everyone know when/if I do that though, no worries. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who gave kudos, commented, bookmarked, subscribed, etc.! It made my heart warm and my head fuzzy. Hope you like this chapter as much as you seemed to like the first!
> 
> Warning: mention of the possibility of rape--Rape did not take place, one character is just concerned that it might have.

“Do you know why I was so angry at him for not shooting the damn dog?” Harry murmurs when Merlin walks in to adjust his painkillers. Harry had complained earlier of headaches and none of the nurses had increased the dosage when they could, meaning Merlin had to pick up their slack despite never finishing medical school. 

“No, but it sounds like you’re dying to tell me.” Merlin remarks dryly. He fiddles with Harry’s IV. 

Harry sighs, the sound as heavy with emotion as it is with exhaustion. The man may be forty-nine, but his flair for drama has yet to be grown out of. “At first, I thought it was weakness. It was, to a point, but that’s not why I was angry. That poor, pitiful thing has given up every chance of a future in doing anything useful to save his mother, and then to save his sister. It should’ve occurred to me that he would do the same for an innocent creature, especially one he bonded with.” 

Merlin hums. “Yes. I anticipated his response, to be honest. While you were blinded by his… What did you call it? ‘Potential’? I had multiple backups in mind. Had he refrained from stealing from Arthur, I would’ve had alternative options for his employment in Kingsman sent to him. He would’ve made a decent enough handler—Don’t give me that look, technology might not be natural to him but he’s a smart enough lad. I would’ve taught him enough to manage. Plenty of what we do isn’t tech-oriented anyway.” He shrugs at Harry’s disgruntled look. “He’s skilled. It’d be moronic to let him go after we spent so much time training him.” 

Harry scowls deeply. Merlin remembers the same look being used the first time he asked Merlin to watch Mr. Pickles for him. Possessiveness with a hint of jealousy at the edges—The man’s protective over “his” belongings, the controlling hedonist that he is. “Even if he hadn’t saved the world, I would have found a more suitable position for my boy.” 

“Calm down. ‘Your boy’ has saved the world, he’s more than earned his position as your successor, and life goes on.” He rolls his eyes. Thankfully, the painkiller increase seems to be enough, judging by Harry’s responses. “So why were you angry at him? You said it’s not because he was being a spineless bastard, so why?” 

(He’s curious. Sue him. There hasn’t been inter-office drama this amusing since Percival called Heather a whore and she retaliated by sending his wife pictures of him with an unnamed mistress.) 

(Photoshopped, of course, but Percival’s wife was a sensitive little thing.) 

Harry’s eyes have drooped shut, and Merlin growls at the lost answer. “Harry?” 

“Mm. Isn’t it obvious?” He mumbles. “I was furious that he wouldn’t do something for himself. Just this once. He couldn’t put his happiness and future over someone else, couldn’t do one fuckin’ thing for himself. That damn dog inspired the same loyalty that he had to his family. Ridiculous. ‘S a damn dog, for Christ sake. Like it would do the same for him.” The scorn is evident. 

Merlin leans against Harry’s bed, waiting until his breathing evens. When he’s on the edge of sleep, Merlin says quietly, “Bullshit. You’re mad he didn’t shoot the dog for you. Don’t pretend you’re doing any of this for the lad, Harry. It was always for you.” 

He snorts in his sleep and Merlin snorts back disdainfully. 

“Selfish bastard.” 

* * * * 

Merlin prefaces Eggsy’s normal greeting with, “Say any variation of ‘I told you so’ and I will ensure that Harry knows exactly how many hours you sat by his bedside weeping.” 

The boy blinks and keeps his mouth shut for once, which Merlin will appreciate later. As of right now, though, he is frustrated, sleep-deprived, and irritated by his own incompetence. To his displeasure, Harry had spent the morning doing everything but blame Merlin for the disaster the new Lancelot has found herself in. 

(“You wanted her to take a night for herself, Merlin. It’s hardly a crime. She hasn’t taken a break since she joined us. It’s understandable you wanted to give her that.”) 

“DeCoeur may have Lancelot captured,” Harry explains. He hasn’t gotten any more sleep than Merlin, the dark circles barely hidden by his glasses. Merlin has avoided looking in mirrors for the past two days for that exact reason. If he hasn’t seen his own, he can keep criticizing Harry’s. “She stopped transmitting after they went up to DeCoeur’s room, but now Lancelot’s GPS has been shut off as well. She’s not responding to any attempts at contact either. DeCoeur’s tracker has her at a populated café in Paris—”

“Meaning Lancelot, most likely, isn’t with her.” 

Eggsy’s face pales. “DeCoeur didn’t suspect nothin’ though. She was eatin’ outta Rox’s hand. Did we fuck somethin’ up?” 

“Unknown,” Harry says. “We’ll keep this between us and Percival for now. I’m…uncertain how the older agents would react to Lancelot’s choice of bed partner and I would prefer to keep her privacy for as long as possible.” He grimaces, an action Merlin echoes. Personally, he questions letting even Percival know about his protégé’s state: Percival adores her, but he can be old-fashioned. “Are you willing to check DeCoeur’s room? Normally, we would ask someone who wasn’t as attached to Lancelot as you are. With her being a new agent, in a—I believe the word Gawain would use is ‘scandalous’—situation like this, it would be better for her professionally if we find her quickly and quietly. We need to know you can be discrete about this.” 

His face turns red and furious, offended at the perceived jab at his discretion. “’Course I can do this. ‘S for Rox, innit? I’ll be hella professional, bruv. Send me the room number on the way.” He slips his glasses on and sprints out the door without another word. 

“Don’t think this is getting you out of your homework, Galahad!” Harry calls after him. He rolls his eyes at the obscene gesture the line inspires. “Honestly, you would think I spent months teaching him to be even more of a mess.” 

“’Homework’, Harry?” Merlin questions. “Is that a euphemism?” 

“Is it that obvious?” Harry responds mildly. “I thought we were being clever.” 

He pointedly meets Harry’s eyes. “I’ve heard better.” For a brief second, they stare before breaking it and moving.

Merlin sets up Eggsy’s feed on his tablet while Harry pours them each a drink. They settle around Harry’s desk, the tablet propped up between them and mostly blurring as Eggsy runs to reach the garage. He picks an inexpensive car with a large backseat—A practical choice Merlin didn’t expect, not with the flashy nature of the cars he’s stolen in the past—and drives it expertly. 

The new Arthur’s face remains impassive, eyes locked on the screen. Merlin has known him for long enough to see the worry in his eyes—Enough to know he’s reflecting it back, too. Both are fond of their youngest members, the easy joy they find in life a balm to their battered souls. 

Even if Harry won’t admit it, Roxy’s their best recruit in years and that includes Eggsy. She’s well rounded and aware of her faults in a way Eggsy refuses to be. Eggsy rages like the worst part of a hurricane, but Roxy’s the eye of the storm. Eggsy has instinct, but Roxy has insight. In a flashy firefight, Eggsy’s skilled, but for their common line of work Roxy is a prodigy. 

Her being captured is troublesome. If it’s because she was distracted by the sex, then that’s one thing—If it’s because she forgot that she was sleeping with a target and let her guard down, that’s another. Although Eggsy seems to think otherwise, they have very few true “honeypot” missions, which means if Roxy is easily distracted by sex, it won’t be a problem in the long run. Usually, they tantalize the target with promises and then use an amnesia dart on them when they’re alone. Merlin can count the number of times an agent has had to follow through on their seduction on one hand. 

(He has been firm in his refusal to change mission parameters now that they have a Kingswoman. Various agents have suggested that Roxy could use her “womanly ways” to give them an easier “in” to events, but an answer of, “There are no regulations for that kind of mission. I can’t send a new agent out on an experimental style, now can I? We should stick to the traditional ways” keeps them satisfied for now, the damn sexist geezers. 

If they won’t take it up the arse, lie back and think of England, then they have no right to ask it of Lancelot.) 

Eggsy arrives at the hotel obscenely quickly. He can only imagine how many mothers in mini-vans have cursed the lad’s name by the time he parks at the kerb. “I’ll only be a moment. My friend needs a ride home, I’m just going in to get her.” He soothes the manager. 

“Room’s on the third floor, second door on the left if you take the lift at the end of the hall. Got it?” Merlin says. 

“Yes, of course. Certainly.” Eggsy hurries to the lift, smiling charmingly before the doors shut. “So, what am I lookin’ for exactly? Any sign of Rox, obviously, but what else?” 

“You just look around and see everything. Harry and I will let you know if something’s important.” Merlin drums a finger against the desk impatiently. 

It’s nerve-wracking when an agent’s GPS goes MIA. It’s not on the same feed as the glasses’ transmission, and usually they have it on a separate accessory of their choice, like a “lucky” piece of jewelry or an item they always had on them (even outside of missions, though they complain about “Big Brother” Merlin spying on their private lives. As if he cares what kinky shit they get up to with their spouses or mistresses). Stupidly, he had thought Roxy’s and Eggsy’s official GPS items could wait until after he and Harry sorted out more of the organization. 

(The only thing with better quality than hindsight is the pair of glasses that saved Harry’s life. He’s framed them and hung them up over his desk as a mark of their fantastic workmanship.) 

Eggsy does a good job of not immediately running to the door. He paces himself, though his clenched fists betray his anxiety. An empty ID card is swiped through the card reader twice, once to copy the lock and once to unlock it. One of Merlin’s personal favorites, though he can’t take credit for the creation. 

A harsh intake of breath is the only warning they get—A glimpse of a naked body with streaks of red and brown dripping down its arms flits across the screen before Eggsy claps a hand over his glasses and slips them off, tucking them into his breast pocket. 

“Galahad, put those back on this instant—“ Harry begins. 

“Hey, Rox? It’s Eggsy, ‘m right here. Gonna untie this now, yeah?” 

“Eggsy?” 

“Yeah, ‘s me. You good?”

“Oh thank God—I was worried I’d have to wait for cleaning to get here, luv.” She sighs in blatant, utter relief. “Get the blindfold off first—Guess it’s my own fault that your ugly mug will be the first thing I see.” 

Eggsy is conspicuously silent. There’s rustling, and a soft laugh from Roxy. 

“That’s better. Thanks. Wrists too now. I think I messed up my thumb a bit trying to get out.” 

There’s more movement before a loud sigh of relief echoes around. 

“You won’t even believe how this went tits-up, let me tell you—“ 

“How much do I have to hurt that bitch?” Eggsy’s voice is deceptively light. “’Cause we have the tracker and everythin’ so I can get started well quick.” 

“What? It’s fine, Eggsy. I’m fine. She doesn’t even know who I work for, she’s just a jerk.” 

“That’s not what I—Rox, how much did you consent to? ‘Cause this looks nasty and I’m freakin’ out a bit.” 

(You could hear a pin drop after that, Merlin muses. No one was going to ask it, but there goes Eggsy—Barging in like a moron and mucking everything up.) 

“Oh Eggsy, it’s not like that—It was, we were good—“ 

“Rox.” He cuts her off, still dangerously placid. “How much did you say ‘yes’ to?” 

She says, “Everything before being tied up.” 

“And after?” 

“She didn’t do anything—It wasn’t a big deal.” 

“Do I haveta keep repeatin’ myself? What did she do that you did not give informed consent to?” 

Suddenly, she snaps angrily, “Look, I’m a big girl—!” 

“A big girl who won’t tell me if she was fuckin’ raped—!” 

“Oi, shut it dickhead!” She snarls. “There was some scare tactics involved but nothing long-term traumatizing, certainly not that. She found my gun this morning and freaked, that’s all. Probably thought I was an assassin, and she caught me off guard while I was showering. She hit me, I passed out, and when I woke up she had me tied, said her goodbyes, and left. Happy?” She rolls on, spitting out, “Now mind your fucking business, hand me my clothes, and for the love of God and everything holy give me five seconds to process the paradox between the best sex of my life and the absolute shit of a morning I just went through.” 

It’s silent for a handful of minutes. Merlin can imagine her pulling on her dress from the night before, probably stealing Eggsy’s suit jacket to cover the worst of her abrasions around her arms. From what he can tell from the brief glimpse, she hadn’t been harmed outside of her own struggles to get free. 

DeCoeur must be good, to have Roxy that out of sorts to be tied up like that. She’ll have to go through some remedial lessons on how to escape situations like that, but overall she seems to have handled it fine. Luckily, DeCoeur must have had a soft spot for a pretty face, which means he doesn’t have to know whether she could handle herself in a more serious situation where there’s a gun at her head instead of the consequence-free situation she had. 

He’ll teach her himself, as apparently the training with the now-deceased Tristan didn’t do the job. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push. I was worried.” Eggsy’s voice is soft. Giving, like the boy tends to be. 

“I’m not your little sister who needs to be protected, Eggsy. I fucked up here and I needed your help but that doesn’t make a damsel in distress or you a knight-in-shining armor.” Merlin could argue that “fucked up” is an understatement, or that she did in fact need to be rescued like a damsel-in-distress, but he keeps his mouth shut. 

(Instead, he’s already outlining a lesson plan for teaching Roxy how to get out of hostage situations.) 

“I know that.” 

“Then act like it.” 

“I was worried. I’m sorry.” 

(The boy’s enunciating. That’s not good.) 

“Galahad, get back to base now.” Harry’s voice is almost obnoxious after so long of being focused on the little ones. “That’s an order.” 

Eggsy pointedly taps on the earpiece in the particular way that makes it screech. 

* * * * 

Eggsy is Roxy’s closest friend, but sometimes she could strangle him. For all of his caring, he has less tact than a hyperactive four-year-old. She knows she had a right to snap at him for his nosiness—He was pushing too hard too quickly when she just needed a second to adjust to being able to move and see after hours of kneeling there like a chastised dog, jesus. Her anger is justified, she knows it is; that doesn’t make seeing his blank look any less irritating in the guilt it causes. 

She insists on driving, to twist the knife a little deeper. He wants to argue, his lips pursed and taut with a retort on them. His eyes dart to her bloodied wrists and she knows he wants to clean and bandage them more than he wants to breathe. 

To his credit, he merely huffs out a frustrated breath and says, “Yeah, fine” before handing her the keys. 

Having some control back feels amazing. Some tension leaks out of her shoulders, and she rolls her neck. The driver’s seat welcomes her comfortingly. Eggsy tries to act like he’s not staring, but his knees are angled towards her and he’s so bloody obvious—

“Can I please—Please, please please, can I fix your wrists up?” His voice, a strangled mess, squawks. “Don’t they hurt? C’mon, Rox, I’m sorry for hoverin’ but we wasn’t even thinkin’ we’d find you there an’ ‘m sorry but please stop punishin’ me by hurtin’ you, yeah?” 

Lucky for him, they arrive at HQ at that exact moment, where she can park the car. Jangling the keys, she says exasperatedly, “You can’t shut it off, can you? Fine, you freak. Patch me up.” 

As expected, he nearly falls over himself to grasp around for one of the many medical kits each Kingsman vehicle holds. It’s horribly endearing and the last vestiges of her anger fall away. He’s a moron, granted, but he isn’t actually being condescending or acting that way because she’s a woman—She knows that, which makes his concern all the more irritating. He worries about them all to an extreme extent, to the point where Roxy worries about him getting ulcers. 

(Roxy feels like her and Eggsy are two sides of the same coin—He, the rough nurturer and she, the delicate warrior. As much as he ignores it and tries to forget, he isn’t in Kingsman for the fight like the rest of them. There’s no inherent bloodlust in him. 

He’s not in it to be heroic, like she imagines Harry/Arthur is, or to have a purpose, like Merlin must be, or to do the right thing and carry on her family’s legacy, like Roxy is—He accepted Arthur recruiting him at first because he wanted to save his family and he stays now for the same; because he collected them into his family like she used to collect Pokémon cards.) 

His hands are gentle as he sprays both wrists with a cleaning solution. It stings, shocking her with the sudden jolt of pain. Since her first frantic struggles, she had put the raw pain out of her mind. They’re pretty beat up, she’ll admit. She has streaks of blood over her fingers and palms from where it dripped over the wounds. Thankfully, she maintains a very short fingernail length so she won’t have to spend hours scraping bits of dried blood out of them. 

Eggsy winds gauze around her left wrist first. She wonders, idly, if they’ll scar. She only has a handful of scars from stupid childhood shenanigans, the worst being one on her arse she received by falling backwards onto a kitchen knife when she was seven. That’s always a fun one to explain to bed partners. For the most part, her skin doesn’t scar. Not nearly as badly as Eggsy’s, which holds countless stories that Roxy bets are more embarrassing than her arse-meet-knife story. 

By the time Eggsy finishes, she has plans to buy long-sleeved dresses and thick bracelets before her next Intel mission. He pats her wrists before stretching and getting out of the car. 

“Arthur’s office?” Roxy asks, making her way to the entrance next to Eggsy. “This isn’t going to be humiliating at all, I’m sure.” 

“They was worried, Rox. Pretty sure they’ll do the whole, ‘We was worried sick’ spiel parents do but they’ll be too happy you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere to bug you much.” Eggsy shrugs. “Be a bit surprisin’ if they didn’t give you the day off—You look a wreck luv, I gotta say.” 

“Sorry, next time I’ll ask her to reapply my eyeliner before she blindfolds me,” She retorts, grinning. 

Eggsy’s stopped walking on eggshells, finally. Apparently, if he can perceive his actions as “fixing” part of the problem—in this case, patching up her wounds—then he calms down. She files it away for the next time he goes into Mama Bear mode on her. 

(Eggsy, surprisingly, isn’t nearly as reckless on missions as she thought he would be. He tends to listen very carefully and follow directions rather than jump into the fray and rely on his skills. Roxy’s too impatient for his approach, which is why they tend to split up on missions. This means that Roxy is more likely to face worrywart-Mother-Hen-Eggsy in the near future than he is to face kill-whoever-hurt-you-Roxy.) 

(She wanted to try using that Roxy on their newest Arthur when he first came back, but Merlin would’ve killed her for making him take up Arthurial responsibilities again.) 

Roxy rather likes Arthur’s office, truth be told. He’s changed the overall theme of it, changing furniture and the décor, and it has a wonderfully modern feel to it. She’s heard Kay complaining about how uncomfortable it all is and Gawain saying, “But what is the painting supposed to be of? My granddaughter could make that!” 

She sinks into the box-like seat in front of his desk when they arrive, the black leather clinging to the backs of her thighs almost immediately. Arthur, behind the desk and looking amused, pushes a glass of scotch across to her. “You look like you could use it, Lancelot,” He explained. She takes it, tilting it towards him in a sardonic toast. 

Merlin strides past her seat to meet Eggsy before he sits down. He taps Eggsy’s forehead pointedly, harshly. “Wear your fucking glasses. I didn’t think I needed to specify, but anytime we send you out in the field you wear your fucking glasses. The entire time. Capiche?” 

“Oi! Didn’t need ‘em, did I? Rox was there.” 

“Not the point. You—“ He points at Rox. “Give me your hand.” 

She holds it out, yelping when he slaps a shockingly hot slab of metal onto her tender, but now white-wrapped wrist. “What the—?” 

It clicks around on itself into a thin bangle, just thin enough in diameter to rest on her wrist. Simple silver, with no embellishments. A tiny blinking blue spot on the inside is the only hint that it’s not just an accessory. 

“Don’t take it off. Ever. I will know if you do. Hopefully, a GPS more permanently attached to you will prevent our Galahad’s panic if this happens again.” His tone could give the Sahara a run for its money. 

Disgruntled, Roxy shakes her wrist. “At least it doesn’t jangle.” 

“You say that like I was the only one worryin’,” Eggsy grumbles. “I ain’t ever seen Merlin so tense, Rox, let me tell you. He almost cried.” 

Roxy counters with, “Eggsy, have you heard the saying ‘don’t throw stones in glass houses’? Because you really shouldn’t, luv.” 

Eggsy’s face reddens, and (unsurprisingly) Arthur comes to his rescue. “As it happens, your briefing will have to wait, Lancelot. I have a more serious matter to discuss with you lot.” 

They perk up in interest like obedient dogs waiting for a command. Roxy’s long since gotten over the flush of shame her eagerness brings her; Eggsy’s is much more embarrassing, after all. He’s only ever eager when it’s Arthur talking about “spy stuff.” 

(Or Arthur talking about past missions. Or Arthur talking about paperwork. Or Arthur talking. Or Arthur breathing.) 

“Our division in Germany took out a problem—said problem had three of Valentine’s SIM cards on him. Upgraded, with more capabilities than the previous ones if their initial analyses are correct.” His face darkens. “Capabilities that could include more control over whoever has them implanted. In addition to increasing aggression, they seem to be able to increase suggestibility with a different signal.

“They want to send them over to us, as apparently we aren’t stretched thin enough as is.” He lets his (too concise, Roxy thinks) explanation sink in for a moment before starting on his orders. “Merlin, you’ll have full control over the SIM cards when they arrive. I don’t want anyone else knowing they exist. Find out what more they do, how to track them, how to counter them—preferably without killing whoever has one. You have three days to find a secure way to keep them in only your hands.” 

“Understood.” Merlin’s lips are thin with displeasure and stress. Eggsy’s frowning deeply, eyes flickering between Merlin and Harry. 

“Galahad and Lancelot, you’ll have to escort the SIM cards from Germany back here. We have a plane ready for tomorrow morning, four o’clock sharp. The first two days you will help the German division with an infiltration they have had issues getting an ‘in’ with. One of their agents will accompany you two as a ‘translator’ to the event—I believe it’s a technology conference, the details will be sent to you later today—And after you’ll meet with their head and receive the cards. The mission will provide us with a reason to send you over there that will appease the other agents—“ He cuts himself off abruptly, a troubled look passing across his face. 

“’S matter, Harry?” 

“I’m not fond of all of this secrecy, you understand. With the rest of the knights already overworked and us three agents down, it isn’t conducive to a trusting environment, but with it being so soon after Chester—Well, I don’t want this information discussed outside of my office.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Kay would most certainly argue that this shouldn’t be our problem anymore, at the very least, which I don’t want to deal with.” 

“Gawain would talk about how the cards had nothing on rotary phones and Bors would ask why we were helping the Nazis, I’m sure,” Merlin adds caustically. “It’s for the best, Harry. The less the old bastards can fuck up the better.” 

Roxy snorts before she can stop herself and Eggsy lets out a low whistle. “Tell us how you really feel, bruv.” 

Arthur reluctantly grins. “Well, you’re not wrong.” 

“They ain’t that much older than you two—“ 

“Yes, but we’re not stagnant morons like they are,” Merlin bites out. He crosses his arms and huffs. “The only reasons why they haven’t all gotten offed by their own stupidity are that they have money and an overly developed sense for saving their own skin.” 

Arthur’s grin widens. “Why Merlin, I haven’t heard you disrespect our colleagues this blatantly for years. Not since we had spent a sleepless week together during my mission in Italy. When was the last time you slept?” He waits for an answer; grin widening further when Merlin pointedly looks away. “That long? It’s a good thing I’m ordering you and Lancelot to take the rest of the day off.” 

“Harry—“ 

“I will pick you up and carry you to your bed if I see you’re online anytime between now and tomorrow at six AM. Go home. Eat something that isn’t from the vending machine. Sleep.” He pauses. “Why am I telling you this? You aren’t going to listen. Lancelot, you can have the rest of the day off after you escort Merlin home. Knock him out if you want. Don’t let him take his tablet.” 

Roxy laughs at Merlin’s reddening face (in anger, mind you, not embarrassment) and says, “Got it, sir. Anything else?” She stands up and places the empty tumbler back onto Harry’s desk. 

“That’ll be all, Lancelot. However, please be more careful with your love life in the future—It puts Eggsy out of commission when you get in trouble with all of his worrying, and we really can’t afford to be down anymore knights.” His eyes are sparkling with mirth as he teases. 

With a sweet smile, she leans forward and asks quietly, “May I advise you similarly, Arthur?” She glances pointedly at his temple before turning on her heel. Eggsy takes the seat she just vacated, complaining already to Harry-the-mentor as opposed to Harry-the-boss. She clenches her jaw and barely restrains herself from stomping through the door. 

(Look, just because Eggsy has a heart of gold and seems to have forgiven the man for every sin [Never apologizing for bitching Eggsy for sticking to his principles, scaring Eggsy and making the poor thing worry that he’d died because he went somewhere without any backup, and ignoring the fact that there wouldn’t have been a world to wake up to if Eggsy hadn’t played the dashing hero when he knows damn well his pride would mean everything to Eggsy] doesn’t mean that Roxy has to. 

She likes him as Arthur—Harry Hart as a person, though, makes her wary. He manipulates Eggsy’s issues the same way Albus Dumbledore used Harry Potter’s. Enticing a bright boy with tales of battle and valor, with stories about his brave and good father, with promises of a better life—Men don’t do that to help the boy, is all she’s saying.) 

Merlin grumbles as they stride through the halls. His displeasure couldn’t possibly be clearer—Though she’s proved wrong, because the closer they get to the exit, the slower he goes. 

“If you don’t pick up the pace, I will knock you out as Arthur recommended,” She comments lightly. “I have had an absolutely hellish day and would like to get some sleep. So please, stop being a toddler and move your fucking arse.” 

Merlin’s eyes snap over to her suddenly. “So it’s not just him, I see.” 

“This isn’t like Eggsy’s worrying, if that’s what you’re thinking. I really just want to go to sleep—“ 

“No, not that. Harry calls you ‘Lancelot’ rather pointedly, doesn’t he? And you call him ‘Arthur’, even when we’re not in a briefing.” Sharp eyes stare at her from behind his glasses. “You’d think you two had a problem underneath all that forced civility in front of our Galahad.” 

“Are we pointing out speaking habits? Because that’s twice now you’ve called Eggsy that just today. Getting fond of ‘our Galahad’, Merlin?” She remarks casually. “I’d accuse you of inappropriate favoritism, but I’m under the impression you like anyone who isn’t over the age of fifty-five right now.” 

“We can tiptoe around this the entire walk home, or we can talk plainly. Which would you prefer?” 

Roxy realizes, quite suddenly, how frayed her temper is the moment they step into the London streets. 

“Look,” She hisses, grabbing his collar and pulling his face down to her. “Eggsy doesn’t need another man in a position of authority taking advantage of his daddy issues, you hear me? Arthur does more than enough of that. So you go ahead, call him ‘our Galahad’ and pine away if you’re lusting after him too, but the second I see you using him, playing on his insecurity the way that man does I swear to God I will make your life as difficult as I possibly can. I can’t do shit to Arthur but I can certainly fuck up your life if I have to.” 

Her breath is heavy and loud even to her. It takes her three exhales to force her fingers to uncurl. He straightens and takes a step away. 

“Good to see we’re on the same page regarding Harry, then,” he says calmly, unruffled. It only makes her anger roil in her stomach. “I like Eggsy—not the way Harry does, I assure you. He’s a good lad. Probably my favorite agent because I hate the old crowd and you cause too much property damage to have that dubious honor, which is the only reason I say ‘our Galahad’. 

“I merely wanted to know why you’re so hostile to Harry. Is that all?” 

“Is that all, he asks,” She mutters. “Yes, that’s all. He’s a great leader. Much less creepy than Chester was. Much more effective, too. Just a rotten bastard when it comes to Eggsy.” 

“Lovely. I’ll be assigning you to missions with Harry in the future, then. I can’t trust the old crowd with our new King, which leaves you and Eggsy. Either of you could handle solo missions, but I don’t want Eggsy near Harry more than he has to be.” He starts walking again. 

“I was under the impression you and Harry were friends,” She says cautiously, following after him. “If that’s the case, you’re an awful wingman.” 

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “Being someone’s friend isn’t about being their wingman. It’s about stopping them from hurting someone else with their stupidity. At least, that’s how it is with Harry.” 

Roxy snorts loudly. They’ve stopped in the beginning of the Kingsman line of houses and she starts down the opposite street of him. “Get some sleep, Merlin.” 

“Fuck off.” 

(This could be the start of a beautiful friendship, she thinks wryly.) 

She adores her tiny house with all of her soul—It’s everything she could want. Growing up in a large house with too few people made her really appreciate the coziness of a small home. The three small steps up to her door, the small doorknob that she has to press her fingerprint to in order to open the door, the small lift the one floorboard has that she always trips over—It thrills her, knowing its all hers and she earned it. 

Her parents had handed everything to her—From her toys to her grades to her position in school, money had slicked the way and for as long as she can remember it infuriated her. Feeling dependent on their support long after she became an adult had ruined her life. She worked hard for everything, yet was never rewarded because the “reward” wasn’t because of her actions but her name and connections. 

Nothing seemed worth the effort until Uncle Andy informed her he wanted to propose her for Kingsman, as the first woman agent. She had three days to prove to him that she would be worth the risk—And prove it she did. And she continued to. She wouldn’t have this house if she didn’t. 

This house—she took great delight in painting the rooms of it pink and purple on her first free weekend, and the salt and pepper shakers don’t match, and the stairs creak something horrible, and the water’s always just on the wrong edge of too hot, and her room’s window doesn’t open a smidge—represents it all. Roxy never fails to recognize that when she walks through. 

In that moment, however, her endless excitement and pride over her own tiny house falls numb now that she’s alone again. Her wrists ache, Gabrielle’s face flashes through her thoughts, and her left pocket jingles pathetically when her hands brush against it—She reaches down and tears up the small floorboard before it can trip her up. With a snarl, she breaks it against the door and pretends it’s the resounding shock of pain through her wrists that makes her vision turn watery. 

* * * *

Harry admits he hadn’t expected Eggsy to pick up as many nuances as he did. 

“Dunno bruv. Seems like a fuckin’ mess.” He said, his lips pressed tightly together. “Someone’s dealin’ information out, yeah? Probably someone who got access to Merlin’s shit. Don’t really get why they wasn’t takin’ advantage of bein’ on the comms with agents though, coulda done some real damage by now and who knows when we woulda noticed? Or maybe they’re waitin’ for somethin’ bigger? Get themselves in early on, bide their time, then blow us to hell maybe.” 

The sudden burn of pride settled low in Harry’s gut, and he responded, “Exactly what I thought. I needed a second opinion, though, before starting a full investigation. Normally, I’d ask Merlin, but he’s horribly protective of his group and I feared he might unintentionally dismiss suspicions. Thank you, Eggsy.” 

(He hopes the boy hears the unspoken message. He hadn’t asked any of the more experienced agents, or even Lancelot, as she’s more “book smarts” than Eggsy, after all.) 

Eggsy grinned. “Always got your back, Harry. Any other conspiracies you want me to uncover? Think I have ‘bout one or three more in my quota for the year.” 

“Best save them, then. You’re free to go home for the day to prepare for your trip tomorrow.” 

“Sure you don’t need no help? I ain’t got nowhere to be.” 

“I appreciate the thought, but all I have to do for the rest of the day is sign my name,” Harry sighed dramatically. “Tedious, but necessary. Go ahead and spend some time with Lady Daisy and your mother, they’ll be able to appreciate your company more than I can with this stack of work in front of me.” 

Eggsy left after a short amount of gossip (“Seriously, look at my feed at 11:23 yesterday—Kay was runnin’ and he slammed into Ector’s computer. I swear he thought no one saw, it was hilarious!”), leaving Harry with his paperwork. 

The boy is extraordinary and to have put that together—Harry likes to think he isn’t vain, but he knows that it would have taken most men in his position at least two more weeks to make the connections Harry. Even with Harry having collected the information for him, Harry hadn’t expected Eggsy to reach the conclusion after only a day of contemplation. 

Perhaps he can encourage Merlin to do more than order the boy around, now. Let him take the lead and figure out a situation on his own. Let him look at files, gather information, and draw his own conclusions, find out what needs to be done without someone holding his leash so tautly. Give him freedom and maybe get a miracle or two out of it. 

(From mistakes comes experience, after all.) 

The time to muse on his boy has passed, however, as Bedivere has returned from a long reconnaissance assignment in New Zealand and needs to debrief. Merlin is no longer available to listen and analyze, so it falls to Harry. He sends off a summoning text and sets two glasses on the desk. 

Bedivere—Real name Eli—and Harry had paired up for most of their duel missions in their younger years, before either had the standing to have regular solo missions. Both had been stiff and overly formal, too new to their positions to be comfortable arguing or teasing—Years later, with them settled down and comfortable in their careers, Harry well-known as the “rebellious little sibling” and Eli as the “obnoxious contrary bastard”, they’ve become good enough friends. Once he’s back on the mission roster, Harry will most likely ask Bedivere to be his successor as Arthur until—

(Well, let’s not jinx it.) 

Eli’s decent, even if his affinity for their grenades is a little concerning at the best of times. Having him away for most of Eggsy’s trials had been a blessing, because he can easily see the bad influence Eli would have on his boy. Their meeting couldn’t be postponed forever, though he is grateful it has waited to occur until after Harry recovered. Eggsy will like the man, Harry’s certain. Eli’s like the older brother who went off to charm school, learned his p’s and q’s, and came back smooth but still willing to rough it with the others. He has the same kind of sarcastic, dry humor that Eggsy has, though somehow he gained it without the unfortunate upbringing. 

Eli doesn’t bother to knock, swooping into the office with a low whistle. His ghastly navy shoes toe at the corner of his square seat, lips quirked into a mean smirk. “Trying to impress the young’uns, old man?” 

“More like trying to erase Chester’s presence from everything I possibly can,” Harry sighs. “He had awfully gaudy taste. We could use some minimalist after his extravagance.” 

“It’s so modern. Like walking into a hipster’s café or some shit like that. Sure this isn’t a sign of your mid-life crisis?” 

“As if I have time for that.” He rolls his eyes, standing up and going to his liquor cabinet. A fingerprint scan and half a minute later, they both are nursing tumblers and taking their seats. “Let’s get this over with.” 

“I don’t envy your job, mate.” Eli snickers. Kicking his feet up on Harry’s desk, he swirls his glass around and starts to talk. 

Harry admits, after Eli finishes describing the car he crashed for the third time, he isn’t paying as much attention as he ought to when there’s a mole in their system and any detail could be a gamechanger. Eli’s mission was all for nothing in the wake of V-Day, though, so he feels like his distraction is justified. He leans back in his seat. He hums in the appropriate places and asks for elaboration when necessary. 

(It’s been a long week, and between his normal nightmares and the new ones with alarming religious symbolism he hasn’t been sleeping well. He forgets what it feels like to be well rested. His bedcovers are wrinkled with a twisted ritual of in-and-out, easing into bed only to jump out of it after what seems like minutes. He restocks on tea every three days as opposed to the once a week trip he’s used to. 

At least when he had been in the field, if his sleeping patterns were completely wrecked, the adrenaline rush jolted him into clear awareness every once in awhile. It would keep him on his feet long enough for him to finish his work and get home, where he would collapse and sleep dreamlessly from the crash. 

What scares him is the fact that he can’t tell if it’s the new nightmares or the lack of excitement that causes his restlessness. Is he damaged by his recent trauma and still recovering or has he been this broken for years and simply unaware? 

Maybe if he could sleep for more than an hour at a time, he’d be able to bloody think—) 

“There is something else I’d like to ask you about, Arthur,” Eli suddenly turns serious, eyes somber. “Chester had approached me about Valentine’s plans. Discretely, mind you—So discretely I wasn’t sure what he was doing until long after I saw the news reports.” 

Harry stiffens. “Is that so?” 

“It was all very euphemistic, you see. Talking about the lower class like they’re scum of the Earth, criticizing how you and others were getting soft, and the like. I laughed it off and told him the world was changing—I had been surprised when he agreed with me on that, especially after his talk of tradition and the old ways.” He smirks wryly, self-deprecatingly. “We, obviously, hadn’t been on the same page. 

“He left, but not before he asked me what I knew of the current Excalibur.” Harry starts violently, eyes widening. “I told him I wasn’t aware there was a current one. He said, ‘Now you are. That’s the only warning you’ll receive from me, Bedivere.’” 

The gentle hum of activity in the halls is all they hear for a long, long while. 

“Well shit.” 

“Indeed.” 

“You mean to tell me, that unless he was bluffing, we have a rogue Excalibur who may or may not still be loyal to the late Arthur fucking around God-knows-where with God-knows-what orders. Do I have that correct?” 

Eli cocks his fingers in a parody of a gun and shoots one off straight into Arthur’s chest. “Got it in one, mate.” 

“He could have been bluffing. Trying to get support.” 

“Could have been,” He agrees. “Unlikely though.” 

“There’s a reason why there hasn’t been an Excalibur for years. They’re notoriously unstable. Dangerously loyal to their king, for their king rather than the king’s orders, may I add. Chester wouldn’t have wanted that burden. The organization that would have had to go into training the man, the amount of drugs he’d need to pump the subject full of—How could he have hid it all these years?” He mutters, more to himself than Eli. “The information has been available but to actually use it—He would have started decades ago.” 

Eli sighs. He looks older and as tired as Harry feels. “Look, I don’t know. I’ve heard the legends, but you know the last Excalibur was before our time. I’d keep my eyes open if I were you, is all I’m saying. If this one is anything like the last one that lost it—Well, he’ll come for you. Probably your new boy, too, since he’s the one that offed his king.” 

Harry freezes. His hand clenches around the glass in his hand. 

“If you need me, you know where to find me. I’ll be more than happy to keep an eye on your boy if you want.” Eli places his still-full glass on Harry’s desk, pushing it over pointedly. “Might want to let your tech-wizard know to keep a closer eye on you two as well, if you want my opinion about it.” 

The door clicks shut behind him, masking the sound of Harry’s tumbler cracking down the middle. 

(Over his dead body. Fuck no. Not his boy) 

He lets the broken tumbler slip out of his fingers as he stalks to the nearby wall. Behind the painting is a large safe, in the largest cliché known to man, keeping Chester’s private files. Most are addressed to Bors, who was supposed to be the next Arthur—Chester hadn’t tried to recruit Bors, as far as Harry knows, but Chester knew the man would be too damn lazy to change anything Chester had already set in place. Harry had written the majority off as corrupt but utterly useless for now when he first found the secretive area. 

Now, though—Now, with the Kingsman equivalent of a nuclear bomb possibly in play, the files can’t afford to wait. No matter how secretive Chester had been, making an Excalibur takes decades—At the very shortest, maybe a decade and a half. There would be a paper trail if only to keep track of what worked and what didn’t in testing the subject. 

(After three hours of searching and searching and searching and searching, he realizes he’s not tired anymore. His heart hasn’t stopped pounding since Eli left.)


End file.
